Angles
by invisalite
Summary: Anything looks good when photographed in a certain lighting at a certain angle. Even bodies. Established Shassie, slash, angst  I promise . Don't like don't read. DISCLAIMER: I don't own Psych.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: If y'all are dedicated followers, you know that I don't do multichapter fics. This is my first one (that I started about a month ago) but I've gotten writer's block... So an update might not happen for a while. Please review with comments, what you liked, disliked, characterization flaws, typos, etc. Any help is appreciated. **

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The first call Carlton received about the murder seemed extremely routine. A body had been found at a high-rise apartment. There was nothing unusual about it. Sure, rich people seemed like they had it all together, but of course they fell apart sometimes. Some more harshly than others.

As Carlton drove with Juliet towards the scene, the police scanner continued to crackle with activity. The last dying rays of the sun shone in through the windows and glinted off the puddles on the pavement. It was one of the most beautiful days in Santa Barbara, and seemingly the last day that a murder would happen. Lassiter parked the car and emerged, O'Hara following closely after. He was unsurprised to see his boyfriend and Guster emerge from the small blue Echo that was parked a little ways away.

"Guster, Spencer," he greeted brusquely, heading into the building. Gus nodded in response, dropping back to walk with Juliet.

"Aww, Lassie why can't you greet me by my first name?" Shawn whined as he followed the head detective in. "I mean, we _are_ on an exclusive basis now, right?"

"Shawn!" Carlton hissed as the elevator doors slid open. "Remember what I said about keeping shop in the shop and house at the house?"

The fake psychic sighed, pouting.

"But House is _clearly_ in the shop like _all_ the time!"

Even though his boyfriend's back was to him, Shawn could hear the furrowed brow.

"Not what I meant, Shawn."

The elevator doors slid open, and the pair walked out. Gus and Juliet emerged from the elevator next to them. Carlton caught his partner's eye before walking into the crime scene.

"Stay back, you guys," Juliet warned. "The perp might have left some… goodies."

The detectives gently pushed the door open, revealing forensics already on the scene. As Shawn and Gus followed the officers into the apartment building, the fake psychic's hyper-observant eyes darted around, soaking in every minute detail.

_Spotless apartment. Some signs of a struggle. Lots of lights… umbrellas, screens. Clear pedestals, photos…_

"Wait, I can see something!"

The officers and Gus all turned to face Shawn. His eyes were scrunched closed and his fingers were raised to his head in the signature "vision" pose.

"Flashes of light, runways, hot chicks, handsome men..."

"Project Runway?" Juliet tried.

The head detective fought back a snicker. His partner's menacing glare silenced him immediately.

"No, no. Some still life, gruesome pictures…"

"A photographer?"

"Yes, Gus, yes! A photographer! That's who our murderer is!"

"How are you so sure, Spencer?" Carlton asked, skeptical.

Shawn flailed around, sliding his left foot across the ground and landing on the floor. Near his outstretched right hand were a single photograph and a piece of paper.

"This," he panted, "is what makes me sure."

The detectives and the pharmaceutical salesman all gathered around the grounded psychic to examine the new evidence.

"They were screaming to me from under the couch," came Shawn's muffled explanation.

The picture was of a body hanging from the ceiling of the apartment, along with the city line in the photo. Sunset was obvious in the background. Whoever had taken the photo was obviously an expert in lighting, as the rays obscured any reflection off the window. The paper that accompanied the photo had untidy scrawl detailing the angle of the shot.

"32 degrees from perpendicular to the window, and two degrees below the horizontal axis of the torso," Carlton read. "Whoever is doing this is an expert photographer."

He looked at the photograph again and shook his head in disgust. Juliet glanced at the picture thoughtfully.

"Call me crazy, but does this strike anyone as a work of…"

"Art?" Gus finished.

Shawn jolted upright at the comments.

"This is a murder scene, and you think it's beautiful? Gussy-pants, there is a _lot_ we need to go over after we leave."

"No! Seriously, look at this!" Gus protested. "The lighting is wonderfully done, and… it just has a rather artistic feel. You're not crazy, Juliet. It's an amazing photo."

The fake psychic stared incredulously at his friend before looking back towards Carlton.

"Who owns the place?"

The head detective looked down at his phone, and back at his boyfriend.

"A famous photographer. Salaam Dens. He was an immigrant from Jordan. And… strangely, it looks like he was expecting an attempt on his life. Mr. Dens has already written his will and indicated who his apartment is going to."

"Wait, wait, wait. So the owner of this apartment is Mr. Hanging-From-the-Ceiling?"

Carlton sighed.

"Yes, Shawn, he is."

"Who'd want to kill him?"

"Well," Juliet started, "The person who he wrote into his will would be a likely suspect, since he _is_ the inheritor of his apartment."

"And who is that?" Gus asked.

"Another photographer, Weal Fort."

"Hold on. Isn't he based in Seattle?"

"How do you know this?" the fake psychic wondered, rubbing his head. His friend shot him a look.

"It's common knowledge, Shawn."

Shawn looked to his boyfriend for support, and was disappointed to find none.

"Common for you guys," he muttered, picking himself up off the ground.

"O'Hara, put out a warrant for Mr. Fort. I want him at the precinct and ready for questioning," Carlton ordered, sweeping out of the apartment.

"Got it," the junior detective responded, whipping her cell phone out of her pocket.

Gus followed the detectives to the door, and looked back at his friend who was scanning the apartment.

"Dude, what are you doing? They've got it all down!"

"No," Shawn replied. "There's something more. It's not Whale Ford or—"

"Weal Fort."

"I've heard it both ways. But it's not him, it's someone else. Why would Salami write one of his competitors into his will?"

Gus shrugged, and walked out of the apartment. Shawn glanced around one last time, trying to find one last detail to help nab the murderer.

_The apartment is strangely clean for an artist, even though he's a photographer…_ he thought. _I just somehow get the feeling that this is the studio of something more sinister._

The fake psychic rushed out of the door, leaving the forensics on duty. As he brushed by the phone, the open entry on the phonebook caught his eye.

_Alga Dethrone. Professional photographer._

Gus's voice broke through his thoughts.

"Shawn, let's go!"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Goodness, I need to find motivation to work on this. The opening line of this chapter has been floating around in my head for weeks, but the rest of this sure didn't come easily. I hope you guys enjoy it, and sorry for such a long wait! Please be sure to review-I think that might give me some motivation to work on this baby. :) **

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Gus brings Shawn back to the Psych office because he completely refuses to drive anywhere near Lassiter's house.

"That man _scares_ me Shawn, even if you're dating him," had been his explanation. Shawn had just thrown popcorn at him and called him a myopic Chihuahua.

Now he was waiting for his handsome Irish detective to come by and pick his sorry butt up for dinner. His motorcycle was currently vacationing (in a loose sense of the term) at his dad's house. In other words, he had done something that Henry deemed "too dangerous" and so the former cop had confiscated the speeding death trap. Shawn had almost cried. He opted for kicking and screaming instead. His dad just gave him The Look, so he went for skulking around the house until Henry ordered him out.

Shawn was half asleep in his swivel chair when he heard a firm knock at the door. His mouth slipped into an easy smile. He'd recognize the sound of his boyfriend's knuckles on wood anywhere. As he swung the door open he moved in close to Lassiter's personal space.

"Hey Lass," he murmured, fiddling with the head detective's light blue tie.

Carlton grunted in response, taking Shawn's hand in his.

"You ready for dinner?"

Shawn nodded enthusiastically.

"So where are you taking me you handsome fiend, you?"

Lassiter mumbles something that Shawn doesn't quite hear.

"Huh?"

The older man rolls his eyes.

"Chinese. This place has really good sweet and sour pork. There are pineapples."

Shawn smiles and hugs his boyfriend.

"You know me too well."

Carlton smirks in response, but still returns the hug.

"You have easy tastes to guess."

Shawn swats at his arm, racing to get to the passenger side of the Crown Vic.

"Don't say that, you make me sound like I'm _easy._"

Lassiter responds with a snort.

"You kinda are."

Shawn tries to look indignant, but it probably looks like a constipated pout.

"Am not."

Carlton closes his door and turns the key. The car hums to life as the head detective takes it out of the parking lot. Once they're driving on the main road, he turns to Shawn and mouths "are too." He looks away when Shawn tries to answer.

"I'm not having this argument right now, Shawn."

The younger man grins cheekily and folds his arms, content with the silence for once. The minutes tick by before Shawn opens his mouth again.

"Lassie?"

A grunt.

"Can I tell you what I think about the case?"

Shawn can feel the car slow down a touch.

"Shawn, what did we say about this?"

The fake psychic sighs.

"Since when do I follow rules?"

"Well played."

Silence again, but this time it's of the awkward variety.

"I have a feeling that this isn't what it seems like. Like it's bigger than what it looks like right now."

Lassiter eyes him warily before focusing on the road again.

"How do you know you're right? I mean I understand the hyper-observant part of you but what makes you say that you're right?"

Shawn sighs, slumping against the car window.

"I dunno. It's a hunch."

Carlton furrows his brow.

"I'm gong to need more than that." He gulps. "Shawn, I don't want this to be a serial killer any more than you do, but I can't ask the chief to dedicate a large amount of manpower without a suitable justification."

Shawn fidgets. The car slows down and pulls into the restaurant's parking lot.

"I know you're bound by red tape, but maybe I can do something. A vision maybe?"

Carlton exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Shawn's about to say that he's serious, but his boyfriend stops him with a hand.

"Can we just enjoy our dinner? I know that normally I'd enjoy casework over moo goo gai pan, but I think I need this evening just for us."

Shawn blushes, biting his bottom lip as he opens the car door.

"Whatever you need, Lassie. Whatever you need."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well, hello there! It's been a while. Like 7 months while. Sorry about that-I've been caught up with things that are not this muse, including the Dean/Castiel fandom in Supernatural. It's quite hard to bounce between the two fandoms, mainly because this fandom is so lighthearted while Supernatural is so emotionally intense. But, all rambling aside, I've been having writer's block here. Also, I'm in college now and I have gracefully forgotten my planning sheet at home which is 3000 miles across the country. This is an update to mainly appease those of you who want an update, and it's vaguely important for the plot. Hope you all enjoy!**

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Lassiter drops Shawn off with a kiss goodnight on the landing outside his apartment door.

"Sure you don't want to stay for the night?" Shawn asks saucily, waggling his eyebrows. Carlton sighs.

"Normally, I'd take you up on the offer but right now we're trying to sort through yet _another_ serial killer."

Shawn sighs, slumping a bit. Trust Yang to mess _everything_ up in his life.

"Mmkay." He presses a kiss to Carlton's cheek. "G'night."

WwWwWwWwW

At some point during the night, Shawn's brain decides to take him on an action replay of the crime scene. Miscellaneous facts drift through his head as he analyzes every detail, every piece of visible information. He twitches awake when he remembers the name that he saw in the open phonebook.

_Alga Dethrone. Professional photographer._

Shawn dials Carlton's number faster than he should be able to. The older man picks up on the second ring.

"Shawn, do you know what time it is?"

Shawn ignores his boyfriend's it's-late-don't-even-try-any-funny-business voice and cuts straight to the chase.

"Does the name Alga Dethrone mean anything to you?"

He can hear the Carlton's gears working.

"Um… she's another photographer, isn't she?"

Shawn snaps his fingers.

"That gives her motive. Maybe she wants to weed out the competition!"

"What? Shawn, what are you talking about?"

The fake psychic looks at his phone with a perplexed expression before remembering that he operates far better at obscene hours of the day. Obscene hours of the day when other more normal human beings (like Carlton) are not as operational.

"I saw a phonebook open in the apartment on my way out," he explains, fumbling over his words as they tumble out of his mouth. "Alga Dethrone was the entry it was open to."

He hears some shuffling in the background.

"Carly?"

"Shawn, I'll meet you at your place in five."

"Ooh, a late night date?"

Shawn can just hear Carlton roll his eyes.

"No, we're going to go down to the station and look up this Alga Dethrone character. And then we're going to find out where the hell she is."

"Awesome! See you then," Shawn chirps, rolling out of bed and throwing on his jeans and a pair of Roos.

True to his word, Carlton shows up in five minutes. Shawn dashes out from the apartment complex and hops into the passenger seat unceremoniously.

"Miss me?" he asks, a small vague smirk on his face. Carlton snorts before driving out of the parking lot.


End file.
